


Might

by Doitsuki



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Abuse, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Catatonia, Codependency, Crazy manwe, Depression, Disabled Character, Epic Battles, Hand Feeding, Horror, Hurt/Comfort, I Have No Mouth and I Must Scream, Id Fic, Insanity, It gets worse lmao, M/M, Manipulation, Morally Grey Valar, Multiple Endings, Mutilation, Possession, Psychological Trauma, Recovery, Rituals, The Void, This fic won't hurt you though relax fam, Whump, hypokinesis, metaphysical, negativism, posturing, selective mutism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-27
Updated: 2016-02-04
Packaged: 2018-05-16 18:12:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 16,897
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5835757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Doitsuki/pseuds/Doitsuki
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mairon after being unmade at the breaking of his Ring is given a body to serve in. Working for Manwe as punishment for his crimes, seven ages pass.<br/>He thinks of Melkor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Appearing

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this under the terrible influence of glue fumes and fluoxytene sue me lmao  
> "Accidental Sads" may occur if you read

 Mairon has forgotten the passage of time. Long has he been bodied as one of Manwë’s servants, skin whiter than snow and robes much the same. He has taken many names in his life, Sauron and Annatar among them. He is neither abhorred nor lordly at this point – nay, he is weak. Weaker than his own brother Eonwë, who sneers at him as he floats along the corridor. Mairon does not even have privacy in his own room. The very _air_ is hostile, and he loathes it. He does not belong amongst the Maiar any more, let alone the majestic King of the Valar. It is his penance, he knows, to serve. To serve one who is not his Master.

Manwë knows Mairon thinks of claws to his neck and teeth drawing blood, of savage cries and skinless beasts. Always he shakes his head with a condescending smile. Mairon belongs to _him_. It is Eru’s will.

Eru does not speak to the Valar. He weeps without eyes for his children, sees all that he wishes was naught. Sometimes he looks to Melkor. He implores him to _wake_.

~

A fine day it is in Aman when Mairon is called to the living room of Manwë’s great house. It is a room fit for entertaining numerous guests, tiled in white marble like the floors of a palace. Thick blue curtains drip from the open windows, ever-changing in their forms. Mairon’s bare feet contact the cold floor and he suppresses a shiver. The air sings with whimsy and dread. The latter, he has not felt in another being for _millenia_.

“Ah, there you are!” Manwë turns his head in a single, graceful motion and feathers spill down his slender back. “I have a gift for you.”

At once, Mairon is suspicious. Ever since his arrival it has been drilled into him that he _does not deserve kindness_. What is a gift from the Lord of Arda if not that?

Manwë’s light and carefree smile breaks into pursed lips whistling a gentle tune. As the melody progresses, currents of wind pick up the edges of grey fabric. It is the same grey as the walls, and Mairon only now notices that it covers something. Someone. The fabric lifts and Mairon is choked.

There in a sturdy white chair sits a figure, broad-shouldered and of large stature. Inky black curls of hair spill from his head, framing a masculine face. High cheekbones align with a square jaw _just right_ , proportioned as a legendary warrior sculpted by Eru himself. Thick, strong muscles curve around solid bones Mairon can see by an exposed neck. The figure wears dark red. His eyes are lifeless.

“You have a visitor, Belekoroz.” Manwë’s long, slim fingers caress a gaunt cheek with such _tenderness_ Mairon can only observe from afar. Rooted to the spot, Mairon’s abject horror churns his stomach. He cannot rid himself of the physical discomfort, lacking in the ability to _change_. Stuck in the body chosen by his Lord, Mairon keens.

Belekoroz does not move.

“Ah!” Manwë beams at Mairon then, his teeth so brilliant and white they blind the lesser Ainu. “He recognizes you. I feel it, in his mind.”

Mairon is _disgusted_ at Manwë’s flaunting of his knowledge, this mental rape, merciless plunder of that which has been broken and crushed. He knows who this is by Fëa, not appearance, as this body is far too new. This _soul_ is ancient. As is the name he is called by. Belekoroz. _Melkor_.

Manwë titters like an excited little bird. “Oh! ‘Tis so wonderful to see ye reunited. Go on then, _Mairon_. Don’t you have anything to say?”

Mairon blinks and his former Master looks absolutely _pitiful_ , enough to bring tears to his own eyes.  He glares at Manwë and sees the bastard _smirk_.

“I would… speak to him alone.”

Manwë feigns concern. “No no, we cannot have that! I won’t have ye discussing all sorts of nasty things, reminiscing about the past… My dearest brother here does not remember all his horrible deeds. He is good now, see? A little time alone has done him well.”

“You left him in there for _seven ages_!!”

“Careful, servant. You mustn’t raise voice at your Master.” Manwë’s cool warning does nothing to dissuade Mairon’s flaming anger. Mairon does however feel the probing presence in his mind and spits out what he can manage, what he knows Manwë will see.

“ _You have destroyed him.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> didnt research anything for this until ch6 so um ye gg


	2. Awakening

 

Mairon does not know why he expects Melkor to talk. To just acknowledge him, or even lift a finger… alas. He does not. Melkor is carried by Manwë’s will, floating about in his fancy chair. As an Ainu he does not need food or sleep, but it becomes clear soon enough that his body is mortal, and _does_. Mairon watches in secret as Manwë feeds him, pushes handcrafted delicacies through unmoving lips. How _close_ Manwë is. How white his knuckles turn when he forces locked jaws apart.

Mairon turns away. Standing against the wall he looks at his own hands and thinks, _‘could I do that for him? Force him to eat, sleep and bathe when he does not wish it?’_

He cannot. The memories are faint, these that he has clung to, but they are there – lava fountains in Angband, private discussions in Valinor, meals and corpses and weapons and orcs. _Life_. Manwë mocks it in his every move and Melkor does not flinch. He stares into the distance, dull red eyes unfocussed and dry. Sometimes Manwë licks him there to prevent his eyeballs from shriveling into his head. At least, that is what Eonwë says. Mairon is not so sure. Something is not quite right in the way Manwë lays hand upon his rigid brother and Mairon _will_ find out.

Manwë leaves the room and pretends not to see Mairon lurking. At once, Mairon zips in like a flash of lightning straight to Melkor.

His prepared condolences die in his throat at what he sees. Nothing has changed, only Melkor’s lips are a little wet and his eyelids are shut. Manwë’s touch lingers there as do the dark circles of sleepless nights.

“Melkor,” whispers Mairon, pressing his lips to the Vala’s ear. “I… am here.”

Melkor does not reply. His hair remains thick, lustrous and entirely still when Mairon forgets to breathe.

 _‘He is so pale… so terribly unwell. How could anyone do this to him?’_ Mairon has long since learned to cry freely under Manwë’s roof, as Nienna also lives here and encourages it. Mairon cries when he thinks of himself. When he thinks of Melkor. When Eonwë hits him. The list continues.

He holds Melkor’s hand, his tears thin and tasteless falling between the cracks.

“Please…” he whispers, “Look at me.”

Not even the flow of blood through the blue veins on Melkor’s eyelids can be observed. A thought flickers through Mairon. _‘Is he dead?’_

“No, you fool. He is not _dead_.” In through the door saunters Eonwë, his tall boots clicking on the floor. Instinctively Mairon bares his teeth and hisses at him. Eonwë only cackles at him and shoves a blast of air in his direction. Mairon is still reeling when he realizes what Eonwë is here for.

“Get thee gone.” says Mairon, colloquial in his hatred for his brother. “We are busy.”

“Doing _what_ , may I ask? Begging and crying? Like the weak little thing you are? Do not forget, _traitor_. You have a new Master now.” Eonwë ruffles Melkor’s hair and then yanks out a thick tuft. Mairon gasps as Melkor’s head is jerked back and then rolls forth, no strength or will to hold it up. “See this?” Eonwë waves the hair in Mairon’s face then throws it at him, the heavy black strands blasting forth with the wind. “’Tis nothing. He does not _feel_ , Mairon. Come away.”

“I will _stay_ by his side when Lord Manwë is away! He does not have anyone for company, he…” How Mairon wishes to scream at Eonwë, to slit his throat and torture him for eternity for what he has done. Melkor’s scalp looks reddened now, agitated and with a few drops of blood. Torn from the roots, his fallen hair is all over Mairon. Eonwë continues to laugh.

“He does not _need_ company! Don’t you see? He is furniture, for greater folk to sit upon. Look.” Eonwë jumps into Melkor’s lap and Mairon can take no more.

“GET OFF HIM!” cries Mairon, face contorted with such raw fury that Eonwë is shocked into silence.

Seconds pass. A catlike grin spreads across Eonwë’s soft face.

“My, my. What will Lord Manwë say when he learns of your insolence?” The Herald of Manwë knows how highly valued he is in comparison to the low, defeated Mairon. “Perhaps he shall send his dear brother here back to the Void, and you with him. There to float forever-”

“SHUT UP!” Mairon smacks Eonwë across the face, halting that song of malice right where it dwells. Eonwë does not move as he allows the realization of error to set in. Set it does, right into Mairon’s broken heart. _‘Oh, shit.’_

“I hope you enjoy being _remade_.” Eonwë growls and his icy blue eyes glow with piercing light, rage bubbling through his delicate form. His nails begin to lengthen and _no, I still have the scars, brother you cannot do this,_ Mairon panics inside. Eonwë hears his fluttering pulse and unleashes a loud, shrieking laugh that soon turns to a howl of anguish. Confused, Mairon backs away until he is against the closed window. Then he sees the blood.

~

“I… I do not know what happened my Lord, I honestly do not-”

“SILENCE!” Manwë’s cold command steals Mairon’s breath away. “I will hear my precious Herald before _you_.”

“Thank you, my Lord. It was _him_ , that feral _mistake_ of yours.” Eonwë points at Melkor with an accusing poison in his voice. He can only use one hand. The other is _gone_ , completely ripped from the wrist in a manner similar to a long-forgotten Noldo. “He attacked me!”

“And what, pray tell, were you _doing_ at the time?”

“Does it matter?! What’s done is done! Look!” Sniffling and whining becomes Eonwë’s primary focus and Mairon resists the urge to kill himself. He hadn’t seen Melkor do anything… but the speed of the once mightiest Vala has never quite been believable. Melkor has broken necks quicker than elves have shot arrows, defying sight and sound at once. He is chaos. Mairon’s beloved chaos.

Manwë strokes Melkor’s face, tutting quietly. “My poor, defenseless brother would _never_ harm you, Eonwë. Mairon on the other hand…”

“I didn’t do a _thing_.”

“You LIE!” Manwë throws Mairon into the wall and Melkor very discreetly _breathes_. A loud _crunch_ signals broken bones only Estë can repair but Mairon is not going to her, not yet. Manwë does not like liars in his house.

~

It is a month before Mairon is well enough to walk again. Shakily he makes his way to the garden where Melkor sits in the shade. It is late in the afternoon, sunlight peeking over the mountaintops to smile upon the numerous flowers. Melkor’s eyes are open.

“I… am sorry I could not come and see you sooner.” Mairon kicks the lush grass, ashamed. “I was… ill.” Today he has blackened his hands with the remnants of his own power, burning his fingertips. They glow now like fluffy embers dancing in a newborn blaze. He dares to touch Melkor’s hand, those strong, thick fingers with the clean-cut nails. Melkor has always had triangular claws. Manwë has given him a manicure. Anyone else would laugh at how _ridiculous_ it is, to see such a forbidding monster in fine garments and flesh. Mairon does not.

“I want you to know that I love you.” Mairon’s words fall freely, unrestrained and adoring. “I know you can hear me… after all, I’m not asking you to get out of bed or let me work. You never listened then.” He kneels before Melkor, holding his hand. “You are cold… it’s a little fresh tonight, is it not?” His free hand peels away the cloak he has worn for the past few weeks. It is such a dark brown it could almost be black. But not quite. Nothing in Manwë’s house is crafted to suit the dark. Over Melkor’s shoulders it goes, and Mairon has to stretch to reach him. Then, he sits back down on his knees. Adjusts the cloak a tad. Now, it covers Melkor’s chest too. “Here. I hope it is to your liking, my Lord.”

He hears foosteps then and knows he is not meant to be here, rising to avoid confrontation. His fingertips lift away from Melkor’s frigid hand, the pinpricks of glowing warmth fading. “I’m sorry.” he murmurs, and turns away.

Mairon cannot move.

The vice around his forearm remains tight and unforgiving. Slowly, he turns and sees Melkor holding onto him with quivering strength. Those lifeless eyes glisten with misery so _deep_ Mairon cannot bear to leave him like this. It is the first pure emotion he has seen in a while.

~

When Manwë arrives he brushes past Mairon as if swatting an insect with his mind, then notices Melkor’s grip. He pries those fingers away and shoves Mairon like it is nothing to him, a perfectly kind gesture.

“Ah, I see you have learnt the art of posing, hm? He does make for a good conversation partner if you poke him at the right moments. What have you two been discussing?”

Mairon stares at Manwë in disbelief. “Nothing?”

Manwë does not detect much of a lie there. A discussion requires two participants, both of them speaking, at least. He lifts Melkor in his arms and nuzzles his neck. “Ahh, there you are.” Crooning to the limp Vala as one would to a child, Manwë kisses Melkor just behind his ear. “Come, it’s late. We’ll go to bed, hm?” He moves his arms just so, and Melkor’s head rolls forth in a false nod. Manwë smiles at Mairon then, from within the mass of dark hair. “He’s tired. Do excuse us.”

Mairon is left standing in the garden, shivering and alone. Somehow, this feels familiar.


	3. Articulating

Mairon traces the marks Melkor has left on his arm. They are a little flushed but will fade with time, too soon for Mairon’s liking. Everything that Melkor has to give, Mairon accepts. In his own room where the walls are dull and grey, he wears a blanket around his bare self. He is not permitted colour in his own quarters, holding neither status nor privilege in Manwë’s house. Under this thick fabric however he focusses what power he has left. In the past fifty thousand years, he has stored and attempted to heal. It is all the control he has left over himself, and he smiles as his eyes light up. Now they glow golden as liquid metal in forgelight, illuminating his right forearm. His black pupils narrow to slits.

 _‘He has blessed me with his touch… does that mean… he remembers?’_ Mairon thinks a little deeper. ‘ _He must’ve known his brother was around, or at least would discover his hand upon me… is he starting to wake, then? Will he speak to us – nay, to me? Will he call my name?’_ More than anything, Mairon misses the feeling of being _wanted_. Melkor has loved him, hurt him, fucked him and needed every aspect of his being. The first sign of Melkor needing _anything_ has come, in gripping Mairon’s arm to keep him close. Melkor has never liked being left alone. He destroys things then, and hates it. He cannot help himself.

 

~

Come morning, Mairon is sweeping the floors and dreading the drop of feathers from the other observant bird-Maiar. Eonwë is nowhere to be seen, and Mairon hopes he’s occupied with Manwë for now. When all the cleaning is done, Mairon wants to see Melkor. Last night has given him hope, hope that the same spirit that once pulled him into the darkness will offer a look into the shadows. Melkor’s mind seems nothing more than that, blackened with dust and cobwebs left by spiders long forgotten. Melkor’s own thoughts have given up on him, abandoned him for the nothingness of the Void. But now he is here in the sunlight, where folk gaze at him, some laugh, others turn away. He is offered stimulus. When Mairon passes the corridor behind where he sits alone, he blinks.

A tendril of thought licks Mairon’s cheek with the will of words. Mairon finds his mouth falling open, just enough breath in him to whisper “ **No.”**

He stops walking. Looks around. There is no-one here, no outside presence in his mind either. Familiar comfort however has begun to settle deep in his stomach, spreading to his limbs as a sentence forms.

It is gibberish, entirely incomprehensible when Mairon listens to himself. Strangely enough he does not feel a loss of control as his body is possessed, drifting towards one of many arches lining the open hallway. It is more of a bridge offering a view into the gardens surrounding Manwë’s house, directly above the stone-paved courtyard. Mairon looks down through the arch and falls.

He lands not with the crunch of bone against hard ground but in the outstretched arms of Melkor, who sits before a majestic white fountain. Without moving an inch, Melkor has acquired his tether to reality. His eyes converge.

Mairon takes a moment to catch his breath and scrambles to sit in Melkor’s lap, knees and elbows and sharp edges nudging everywhere. This body is not that which was crafted to fit perfectly with his own. It is not Melkor’s craft.

It is all Mairon may interact with at this point as Melkor’s mind appears closed to him, with such little activity he cannot detect it at all. Mairon does not force himself into the Vala’s thought. Instead, he asks.

“What do you mean?”

Melkor, now cross-eyed, slowly separates his gaze until it reaches Mairon’s nose. His pulse can be felt quickening as Mairon touches his neck.

“You are awake, are you not? I am here for you, if you wish to… speak.”

Melkor meets Mairon’s eyes and though fogged like dried blood behind glass, they flicker with acknowledgement. There is a small fibrous strand on one of his dark eyelashes, white and curly. Mairon breathes in, displacing it.

“Can you blink?” asks Mairon, shuffling around in Melkor’s lap. He cups Melkor’s face, feeling it heat beneath his fingers. Suddenly he answers in a deeper voice than his own.

“ **No.”**

Mairon’s throat feels thick and tight at once, like honey squeezed through the veins of a leaf. This is Melkor’s will, but only a mess of harsh consonants spill forth. The tightness turns bitter and hard, locking further words and breath.

_‘If this is what you wish, I will not breathe. I will die for you, Melkor. I will die, and be made again.’_

Immediately Melkor seems to have a change of heart and grants Mairon huge, gasping breaths that fill his lungs with clean air.

**“No.”**

“I must live, then?” Mairon tilts his head to the side. This is the first semblance of conversation he has had with his ancient Master in so, _so long…_ and it consists of his own body being possessed. He does not mind. It is as familiar as Melkor’s own touch, his wit and power and glory. Faint, but all he remembers. He craves _more_.

“Do… you want me to help you?” asks Mairon, his nose flattened against Melkor’s. “I… have seen how Lord Manwë does it, I…”

“ **No!”** Ah, now there is force and he nearly jerks out of Melkor’s lap. Begging forgiveness, Mairon allows Melkor to puppet him. His finger twitches first, then falls flat and dead. His lips are next. His neck. Carefully he finds himself pressing a soft kiss to Melkor’s brow, sliding down to assist each eyelid down. Now with closed eyes and colour to his cheeks, Melkor only appears as if he is sleeping. He relinquishes his hold on Mairon, a flicker of emotion touching his mind. _Content._

 _‘I am glad I could do this for you…’_ Already Mairon is sinking into his old, near forgotten ways of telepathy despite Melkor giving no response. He wants to stay with Melkor forever, to keep his lap warm when he would otherwise be alone. But somewhere around, Manwë will be watching and waiting for only he knows what. Mairon leaves before this sacred closeness can be discovered.

The months pass, then years, and Melkor never speaks another word other than _no_ through Mairon’s willing lips. The time is far too short for any Ainu to recover from injuries so great as Melkor’s, but Mairon is patient, believing in his Lord. Every day, Mairon sits with Melkor be it at his side or upon him. Melkor does not grab Mairon and this bothers the Maia just a tad – he  has no goal in mind for Melkor’s recovery, he only wants to see him well, but such a sedentary ‘life’ cannot be good for him. He only eats the sweets Manwë gives him, and remains gaunt, almost wraithlike. Nowadays Mairon is often joined by Nienna to look after him when Manwë is busy. What he is doing, nobody knows, and he is so private in his doings not even Varda has a clue. Mairon doesn’t care. The longer he can be with Melkor and not fear for his life, the better.

Today, Nienna sits at the round table outside with some flowers woven into her black veil. Vána is visiting and has business with Manwë, allowed to speak with him for a few hours. Nienna misses her and cries in silence. Mairon rests in Melkor’s lap, his head against the Vala’s still chest. Once every thirty seconds, Melkor’s heart thumps. Mairon spends the intervals tracing circles each second to express the passage of time. He wonders if Melkor knows where he is, what the sun in the sky means, and how much longer the shadows must grow until it is time to go inside. Of course, the Ainur and other forms of life in Aman are greater than hourly restraint, able to spend all night awake without fear of harm. Mairon however has a curfew, his freedom restricted by Manwë’s will. Melkor is much the same, sleeping at night with his brother. Manwë has no need for sleep. He watches.

Light floral fragrances waft about, Mairon’s hair infused with pollen and covered in petals. The trees above are weeping all manner of fluffy particles as the season permits. Mairon does not care much for seasons. As long as it is not winter, he is neutral. How he _hates_ to be cold. He’s already planned to keep Melkor warm when the snow starts to fall.

Mairon’s orange-gold hair tumbles free from its messy bun. The ribbon he has tied it with flutters to the ground, carried by the wind. Manwë is in a good mood today, but is not to be tested. Mairon sighs. As he does so a bit of yellow dust attaches itself to Melkor’s nose. Just as he tries to apologize and wipe it away, Melkor takes in a massive breath and _sneezes._ Nienna jumps fifty feet in the air and disappears, while Mairon struggles to keep from laughing. Melkor’s tongue sticks out and it appears he’s bitten it, though no blood or pain can be seen on his face. Then he opens his eyes, brows crinkled from scrunching so hard.

“Mngh.”

Mairon’s mirth simmers in his chest where it boils into curiosity. “Hm?”

Melkor grunts again, turning it into a long, drawn-out groan. His eyelids droop as his body does, unable to straighten without help. Mairon nudges him into his usual sitting position, keeping his head upright.

“Are you okay?”

Melkor takes a moment, then looks up. His eyes are unused to so much movement and ache quite a lot, but he finds only one way to express this.

**“No.”**

Mairon clasps a hand to his own mouth. “Ah, I’m sorry! Please, please forgive me. Ai, I shouldn’t have, look, I’ll take you inside, would you like that?”

Melkor stares at him. There is no way Mairon can lift him, and his chair is not the kind one can push with ease. He hums through his nose, a steady “Hnnn…” that ends in a huff.

 _‘Is… is he annoyed? Is he mad at me? IS HE FEELING SOMETHING?!’_ Wary and excited, Mairon reaches for Melkor again. He touches both cheeks with the pads of his fingers. “You’re okay.” There is no way he will let Melkor believe something bad has just happened, not when so much progress is occurring at once. He parts Melkor’s tunic and massages the well-muscled chest now exposed to the warm Spring air. The soft crooning expression of pity he emits is so natural he does not even know he is doing it. “Ohh… you don’t have to worry about a thing. I will look after you, just like I used to. Would you like that?”

He waits, hears Melkor draw breath, then exhale a quiet “Nnnhnn.”

It is better than refusal, so good in fact that Mairon lets out a little squeak of delight. He continues massaging Melkor’s chest until he observes the Vala’s eyes slide shut. More tender utterances pass Mairon’s lips until he is murmuring sweet nothings and encouragement into Melkor’s neck, telling him that he may sleep if he wishes. Here with Mairon, Melkor feels safe and drifts into a state of restful unconsciousness. Mairon knows this as the exact same comfort two like spirits have shared in bed and song since the beginning of days.

Manwë finds Mairon there, asleep with Melkor several hours later. He says nothing as he pulls them apart, casts Mairon to the ground and carries Melkor away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> slightly relevant image: https://65.media.tumblr.com/9cb780169244975592f9be8bbc051a1b/tumblr_obcjbqLqVj1u3js07o1_540.jpg


	4. Afeared

“Stop resisting.” Manwë’s fine, arched brows bristle with barely-controlled anger. “You haven’t eaten anything all day.” His attempts to push a spoon of strawberry meringue through Melkor’s pursed lips have achieved only embarrassment, or so he thinks as Melkor cares little for his own appearance. It seems the older Vala in his younger body has become afflicted with rigor mortis, or whatever the latest postlife craze the Children are up to these days. Stiff all over, he does not eat. Even as Manwë tries to stab him, he doesn’t move. So, Manwë tries a different tactic. With a resigned sigh he scoops the meringue into two fingers and offers it up to his brother. “Here. Come now. You must.”

Ever so slightly, Melkor’s jaw gives way to Manwë’s other hand, the one that has been pulling with great strength for several minutes. Finally his pointy little teeth are visible and Manwë pushes the fluffy sweetness in, allowing it to melt on his tongue.

“Good boy.” says Manwë, relief beginning to flood his body – and then Melkor _bites_ him. His shriek blasts the windows to pieces and strips curtains into rags, knocking every ornament from whatever surface dares brave the wind. Melkor in one gulp swallows the two meaty joints of Manwë’s fingers, bones and all. The meringue is a nice touch.

“H-How _dare_ you?” Rage instead of tears tightens Manwë’s eyes around a frigid glare. He raises a hand to hit his brother, then stops. A calm, sweet smile spreads across his face yet his eyes are ablaze with raw hatred. “Mmm, but you don’t know any better, do you? Silly Belekoroz.” He pats Melkor’s cheek. “You’ll always be a little savage no matter what we do, won’t you?”

Melkor says nothing but his moment of triumph is now shadowed by fear. He does not like this look in Manwë’s eyes, not at all, and does not move a muscle.

“You will be good for me.” There is no question as Manwë commands his brother’s obedience. His hand begins to drip blood all over Melkor’s face, two fingers spurting whatever Manwë can stand. “Or I will leave you to _die_.”

He exits the room then, a cold blast of air following him in his hurry to attend to himself. Of course, as an Ainu he can shapeshift at will and easily regrows his fingers. The pain however is fresh and unshakeable, as is the shock of Melkor’s sudden outburst. He does not know how his brother is now capable of motion, motion born of thought and desire no doubt.

Manwë has a thought. _‘Someone is helping him.’_

~

After cleaning himself up, Manwë approaches Mairon. He knows where the Maia is at all times, for in the walls and floors he has ears and eyes. Mairon has long since learnt to be wary of the birds. For a servant, privacy does not exist.

Manwë wears loose white silks and a silver circlet with feathers in it. “Mairon, come here.” He folds his hands in front of himself and waits. Mairon obeys, holding a thin piece of cloth in one hand. “What is it, my Lord?”

“How have you been treating my brother? I know you speak with him often.” Accompanying Manwë’s question is an invasive, slippery grasp on Mairon’s racing thoughts. “Do not overthink your answer, unfaithful one. Speak.” Ripples in the air distort Mairon’s vision, rushing waves filling his mind. Currents scrape at the bottom of his covered secrets, picking at the edges, eager to find memory. Mairon tries not to remember how Melkor looked at him when they reached an understanding for the first time, after he’d slept and woken with company. How he does not want to leave Melkor alone, how he _aches_ to serve him, to raise him up to the sky and make him strong again.

Manwë grips Mairon’s shoulders and the ripples spike deep. “SPEAK!”

“I, I treat him kindly, my Lord.” Mairon stutters what he can without blatantly lying. “I accompany him when otherwise he would be alone, and I do not harm him in any way.”

“What do you discuss?” Manwë’s fingers roll up the collar of Mairon’s tunic and dissolve it with an icy touch. Now, he sees Mairon’s racing pulse and wraps both hands around his neck. “Do you seek to usurp my place?”

“No, never. He is your brother, I am not worthy of usurping a thing.” Mairon tries to be humble but it is not in him, his sass of old seeping through the cracks of obedience. Manwë smiles a brilliant, terrifying smile.

“What do you call him?”

“Bh… uhm…” Mairon’s eyes are locked with Manwë’s now, the spikes in his mind agitating coherent speech into disjointed syllables. Manwë is slowly shaking his head. “Bele… k…kor…o..” Manwë places a thumb to Mairon’s lips and draws it away a moment later. Mairon tastes blood and speaks the truth.

“Melkor.”

Manwë grins. “Yes, little one. _Melkor_. But that is not his name, don’t you know? He is good now, and has no need for _might_. He is once more a child of Eru Illuvatar, blessed may he be. It will do you well to remember this.”

Mairon wants to argue _no_ , _his ancient name holds the same meaning, it is a familiarity to him for me to call him as I once did, don’t you know, you fool, you are breaking him,_ but the power of Manwë’s will keeps his mouth shut. Then, Manwë’s hands _squeeze_.

“I am the giver of life and air, Mairon. You do not breathe without my permission. If I catch you giving rise to unseemly thoughts within my dear, fragile brother, I will unmake you so wholly you will _beg_ for death.” He makes sure Mairon is looking at him when he snaps his neck.

He leaves, and his smile does not falter.


	5. Attempting

 

Manwë has things to do, and everyone wonders what. Long hours he spends underground with Aulë and Tulkas, sometimes seeking advice from Mandos in his halls. Building things is not Manwë’s strongest skill but he has _things to do_ where _no-one can see_. The others always seem a little shaken when they rise from the stairs, followed by Manwë who seals the passage with magic. None of the Maiar know what’s going on down there. Very few _want_ to.

Curious about the lofty Lord’s suspicious behaviour, Mairon tries to open the door to no avail. As the King of the Valar, Manwë’s power is much greater than Mairon’s, which has dispersed over time into the fabric of Ëa itself. It has been said sometimes that Manwë could once best Melkor in mental combat, though at the time they’d been young and prone to argument. Mairon closes his eyes in memory of Melkor’s youth. Melkor was the oldest of them _all_ yet as a naked spirit his inexperience, childlike wonder and lust for creation was clear. Mairon had been a baby Maia straight out of Eru’s palm when Melkor happened. Melkor does not happen anymore. He just _is_ , is broken, manipulated, piteous and pathetic. So Eonwë says. Mairon struggles to keep from beating him into pulp.

“You’re not going to get through that door.” Eonwë laughs as usual at Mairon’s fruitless attempts. “It’s a secret things like _you_ don’t deserve to know of.”  
“And thee? Dost _thou_ know what’s in there?”  
“Of course.” Eonwë lies. “I am not permitted to tell you.”  
“Bullshit.” Mairon’s curse startles Eonwë into a nasty mood.   
“Do not be so _vulgar_ around me! Are you calling me a liar, hm? Do you want to really know what’s down there, something that will chase you away from this house and story forever?”

“Yes.” Mairon thirsts for knowledge. “Give it to me. Thy information.”

“Many of one, split and discarded. Left to grow, to stew, to _breed_. Mandos gives the corpses. Tulkas gives them strength. Aulë… makes rings. So many rings.” Then Eonwë turns and giggles madly up to the white ceiling. “Oh~ I’m going to be in such trouble.”

Mairon does not understand. “Wait a minute. _Rings_? _Breed_? _Stew_? Is this some kind of joke?”

“Yes, Mairon. They are a joke. Just you wait and see. Your part in this is yet to come.” Eonwë leaves Mairon standing by the door. Mairon can make little sense of what he now knows but commits it to memory, processing the information in silence. Orcs come to his mind, but Manwë he knows wants nothing to do with such corrupt, ugly creatures. Manwë does not twist elves, and he cannot create Fëar to animate the dead. However… Mandos can transport spirits to bodies that are not their own, and forcibly bind them to a prison of mortal flesh. Mairon knows this, for it was done to him. He did not have the chance to become as broken as Melkor is today. No, he is tormented on a daily basis, mocked, scorned, abused.  Still he waits, hoping in time he will look as he feels he should. In the meantime, he hates himself.

He cleans his mind when he is with Melkor, unable to be upset when he is with the one he loves. Sitting in Melkor’s lap, he brushes the Vala’s thick black hair. In his low voice he sings to Melkor and sometimes Melkor hums back at him, surprisingly in tune for one so unused to vocal expression. Melkor’s shiny curls are easily braided but bounce free when Mairon remembers Melkor’s preference. Free, wild and glorious.

**“Thank you.”**

Mairon smiles in a vision of pure beauty just for Melkor to see, and puts the brush on the nearby table. “There you go. I got all the knots out. I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

Melkor takes a full minute to shake his head and looks at Mairon when he stills. Mairon praises his effort, kissing the tip of Melkor’s angular nose.

“You’re doing so well, Melkor.” He gazes into Melkor’s eyes and notices how they shine a little brighter, flick in minute dashes from left to right. Melkor is looking at each of Mairon’s eyes individually, at the slit pupils that remind him of his old, admirable servant.

“….Pretty.” says Melkor, no voice to his words but breath shaped through dry lips. Mairon gasps and blushes to the tips of his pointed ears.

“Ah!” Mairon immediately grins so Melkor can see he is pleased and not shocked in a negative manner. “M-me?”

“Mn.” Melkor grunts in affirmation. “M...Mai.” Now his own deep, gravely voice comes through and he quirks up a wry smile, seeking reinforcement.

“Yes, yes that’s right! It’s me, Mai…ron. Do you remember?”

“Mai…ron. Yes…” Melkor shows Mairon his teeth in a stretched grin, pure and joyful. He is learning as he once did how his desire to communicate interacts with his Fána, only this time it is not his own projection but a body somewhat like it. He purses his lips. “Mmn.”

His words are still very, very simple and languid but they leave Mairon incredulous, so happy that he rewards Melkor with a lovely kiss. Now, Melkor flushes as red as Mairon. He smiles once more.

~

As time moves on, Mairon devotes himself to aiding his Lord’s recovery. At first he teaches Melkor the Valarin that is spoken around him. He picks it up as any Ainu would.

“Here.” Mairon puts a swan-shaped ornament on the table before Melkor, seated beside him. Then, he points to one on the windowsill a few steps away. “There.”

Melkor tilts his head to the side until it rests against Mairon’s shoulder, his body falling too. “Here.” He murmurs against Mairon’s cheek, then lifts one finger to point weakly at the window. “There.”

“Perfect. You’re connecting things so fast in that clever mind of yours.” Mairon turns to face Melkor, an arm slung over his upper body. Resting there in a warm hug, he touches Melkor’s mind. The Vala understands and thinks in emotions rather than visuals or words, expressing at present a desire to hold Mairon closer.

“Off…” murmurs Melkor. “This.” He tugs at Mairon’s clothes with his teeth and sighs, too weary to do much more. Mairon shakes his head with a smile.

“I’m not allowed. Lord Manwë will have me walk nude for months.”

“Good.” Melkor looks to Mairon for acceptance of his wants and sees a naughty smile play at the Maia’s lips.

“For you, maybe. I’m embarrassed. This isn’t my body, you know.” Mairon shuffles around, thrusting out his chest. His pert little nipples stick out and tent the thin fabric of his clothes. Melkor stares.

It takes a while, but Melkor cranes his neck to drawl into Mairon’s ear “Mine.” He cannot move his hands much further today and they remain in his lap, still. Mairon giggles, pure bliss surging through him.

“Yes, Melkor. I am _yours_.”

From behind the door, Manwë listens. He thinks to himself, ‘ _You are not.’_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> melkor u perv


	6. Agitated

Manwë holds a council one day. They are becoming increasingly common as the world goes to shit, doomed by mortal whims. What the Lord of Arda concerns himself with most is their lack of faith, and the unwavering belief that if only they would believe, their world would be saved. Manwë cannot intervene directly even when he sees his own outbursts rip houses apart and Ulmo’s pranks wipe out entire societies. Some of the mortals refrain from mindless slaughter in favour of their own deities. Others are on the brink of war.

“What can we do?” asks Oromë, gazing into the center of the round table where clouds obscure a vision of some continents. “If they use those terrible weapons on each other, Arda will become unsustainable and our work void.”

Melkor sitting at the table hears the word _void_ and holds back screaming laughter. Oromë does not know a _thing_ about the Void.

Petting Melkor’s hair with a slender hand, Manwë sighs. “The mortals are so much more foolish than they once were. I stand by my suggestion of idols to represent their deities, accompanied by feats of our own doing.”

“But that’s intervention, we can’t do that. Father’s law, you know.” Vána waves her hands about and nearly smacks Mandos in the face. “Forget that for a moment, though. Are you going to tell us what’s behind the door?”

“You asked before and I gave you an answer.” Manwë replies calmly. “You know I so hate to repeat myself…”

“Fine then, don’t tell me.” Vána pouts. “At least will you tell us what’s going on with your brother?”

“Oh, Belekoroz? He is cognizant, I think, with minimal spatial awareness.” Manwë waves a hand before Melkor’s face and slowly, dark red eyes track it with a delay of two seconds.

“Impressive.” Tulkas tents his fingers. “When will he be able to speak? I… would have words. Then fists.”

“I doubt he will speak to you, Tulkas. He has little love for you and Aulë after your roles in his capture.” Speaking of things Melkor would rather leave behind comes easily enough to Manwë, who completely disregards his brother’s comprehension. “And there will be no fists, none at all. He can barely feed himself, let alone punch.”

Tulkas snickers. “Pathetic.”

Melkor narrows his eyes at him as quickly as he is able. Unseen, beneath the table, his middle finger rises. With that, Melkor is content. Tulkas is none the wiser.

The council continues.

~

Later that day, Manwë sits with Mairon and Melkor on the balcony. Mairon has made Melkor a little bucket-shaped hat with yellow tassels on it which shields him from the midday sun. Manwë allows Mairon to stroke Melkor’s hands enough to massage a bit of life into him. Mairon has a habit of playing with Melkor’s fingers, moving them into random poses as if using an anatomical model. Manwë watches him with a haughty glare.

“Does he talk to you, Mairon?”

Both Melkor and Mairon look towards Manwë at once, the latter awaiting an answer. Mairon takes a few minutes before he nods. It’s about time Manwë knows, despite Melkor being in the earliest stages of forming sentences. He can integrate words with simple Valarin syntax and as he knows what’s up, does his best to answer Mairon’s prompts.

Mairon does not think he is ready to talk to anyone else but his opinion matters little in Manwë’s presence. Manwë stares into Melkor’s eyes.

“Say something.”

Melkor squints. Waits for three minutes. “Some…thing.”

“!!” Surprise overtakes the placid visage Manwë usually wears in the company of others. Then he realizes his brother may be playing games with him and asks Mairon, “How long has he been able to speak?”

“Uh… I’m not sure. Sometimes he talks to me when he wants to.” Mairon looks down into his own lap, still holding Melkor’s hand. Manwë does not know it, but the grip there is tighter. Both on Melkor and his Maia’s behalf.

Just as Melkor’s gaze drifts past Manwë, finger click in front of his face.

“Belekoroz. Focus.”

It startles Melkor enough for him to twitch and grasp Mairon’s hand with unnatural speed.

“Don’t scare him!” Mairon chides his Master and regrets it a moment later. He realizes he is pressed into Melkor’s side like a lovesick widow and tries to unstick himself, hearing Melkor whimper softly.

Manwë shakes his head. “You stay out of this.” He leans in to speak with Melkor, completely ignoring Mairon. “You’re going to tell me everything.”

Melkor’s brows raise, incredulous. “….What?” His mouth feels dry, his muscles twitching to let him escape. He mustn’t move, he knows. He has tried it before and fallen on his face, and will _not_ let Manwë see that.

“Tell me what you feel. How much you understand. What you’re capable of. Go on, brother. I am listening.”

“You… hear what you want to.” Melkor closes his eyes. “I know.” Then they open and they brim with accusation and sadness.

Mairon knows too, that Melkor is trying very hard and understands anything an intelligent spirit can. Manwë speaks to him slowly as if he is stupid and this kills the confidence Mairon has spent years cultivating.

“You. Know. Nothing. Unless you tell me. Can. You. Do. That?” Manwë cocks his head to one side, aiming a nasty glare past Melkor to Mairon. “What. Has. He. Told. You?”

Melkor’s eyes turn glassy. Of course he knows nothing, he is not even the fallen Vala of Knowledge anymore, and he does not know himself. Dimly he recognizes that Mairon is here with him but the part of his mind that was open to communication retreats until Manwë’s words become nothing but wind. Here it is dark, and lonely, but safe. Melkor’s eyes fall shut.

~

Mairon is sent to the dungeons for his insolence and although they are nothing too nasty, they are away from civilized life and leave Mairon on his own. No light touches the walls here, walls which Mairon leans against to remind himself that _there is a world around him_. Too easy it is in the lonely, cold darkness to project into the Void, everywhere and nowhere at once. He thinks of Melkor and his tight, desperate grip. Then Manwë comes to mind.

_‘Why was he questioning Melkor so vehemently? What knowledge did he seek that only Melkor could give?’_ Mairon does not know, and thinks harder. ‘ _Could it have something to do with that door? Or is it relating to me? Is he looking for reasons to… to punish me? Will he… **unmake** me as he promised? Ai… I hope Melkor says nothing to him at all. Manwë is not good for him, not in the slightest. I don’t know why he thinks he is.’_

Manwë has left Melkor in the care of Varda for now and is flying amongst the clouds to clear his head.

_‘Melkor cannot possibly know what we have done to him; we’ve left him in the Void for long enough. He shouldn’t have any memory of his past misdeeds… nor the more recent expeditions into his being. He is as he should be, a shell. But Mairon is teaching him to give voice to his thoughts. He should not have those thoughts in the first place.’_

Manwë flies to the darkest valleys South of the Pelori Mountains and spies an ancient spider-lair, the last of Eru’s discarded thoughts left to fester. He has an idea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So at this point I decided to see if I was pulling off Catatonia right and found [this](http://www.healthline.com/health/depression/catatonic-depression%20%20). Lmao those symptoms are defs legit with this Melk. But ehh, I'll just keep writing.


	7. Afflicted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alright the chapters henceforth will be written with me in neutral headspace and a plot beginning to take shape... I didn't actually start this fic with any plot other than 'Mairon aids Melkor's recovery'. Gonna throw in some curveballs to keep it interesting.

In the days that Mairon spends imprisoned, Melkor grows weak. He misses the Maia’s daily visits and shuns his brother’s touch as much as he can. Manwë is either too gentle or too firm, and his hands are always cold. Mairon… Mairon is warm. Like a flame not yet hot enough to burn through delicate skin, but at the right temperature to spread life to every limb. Melkor thinks in longing and anguish and fear.

_What if he never comes back?_

It is an entire week before Manwë releases Mairon into the house, commanding him to serve as he once did. There are to be no further visits to Melkor, and Manwë reminds Mairon that _he sees all_.

Mairon pays no mind to his Master’s threats and at his first convenience, reaches out. Through his sensing of Melkor he comes into a room dark and with curtains drawn. Melkor sits in silence.

“Melkor!” Mairon whispers, but Melkor does not move. “It’s me.” He hopes the Vala has not regressed in his absence and creeps closer, placing a hand to Melkor’s shoulders. “Melkor?”

In the dim light, a few stray hairs before Melkor’s face can be seen quivering. As he trembles, his breath comes in irregular bursts. There is a fresh, deep red scar on his right cheek.

Mairon gasps and cups Melkor’s other cheek with one hand, pressing his face close. “Melkor, what happened to you?” In his use of the Vala’s favoured name he reminds Melkor of his identity and slowly, damp red eyes open. Evidence of tears soaks Melkor’s now glistening eyelashes in the glow of Mairon’s gaze. Melkor squints at first, unused to the light. Then he recognizes his Maia and wails quietly.

“Maaaiiironn…..” His fingers clench around Mairon’s waist and hold him, shaking with the effort. “Mairon, please…..”

“I’m here, Melkor. You’re okay.” Mairon murmurs low and soothing into Melkor’s ear, kissing him just beneath his jaw. “It’s alright. I am here for you.”

“No… You… you cannot…” Melkor begins shaking more violently as he starts to cry, breath hitching with every word. “He… He will find you… and take you... away…”

“Who, Manwë? What has he been telling you? Oh Melkor, your brother lies, he lies terribly, don’t you know? You mustn’t believe him, he…” Mairon’s rambling dies to a soft whimper. Melkor looks utterly _miserable_ at the mere thought of Mairon’s absence. “A…Ah… do you want me to go?”

“No!” Melkor clutches Mairon even closer, squishing him with his thick arms. There is little strength but he twitches with the effort, and Mairon does not resist. “Stay here.”

Mairon is conflicted. If Manwë or any other Ainu in the house sees what is going on here, the dungeons will become a familiar sight for him. If he leaves however, Melkor will be left alone and neither of them want that. Melkor is so _cold_ when Mairon touches him, his pulse undetectable and skin lacking heat. Mairon’s kisses warm him all the way to his lips, where salt can be tasted. As Mairon licks tenderly and tastes blood, Melkor calms enough to loosen his grip. Minutes pass before he speaks.

“Manwë does not love me.”

Mairon blinks, feigning confusion.”What do you mean? Did he do this?” His index finger traces the edges of Melkor’s scar, then slides into a caress across wet lips.

“With… with a knife, like this…” Melkor feebly raises a hand to imitate a scratching motion. “….it hurts…”

“You poor thing…” Mairon bites his own bottom lip in clear distress. “You deserve much better than that. Why would he do such a thing?”

“He said… about an elf…”

Mairon can hardly remember the various injuries Melkor has received over time, in the early days when he fought everything he possibly could. Now, he is none too eager to scream _fight me_ and casts his eyes to the floor. It makes sense that Manwë would wish to remind Melkor of past agonies to insult his waning might. At least, that is the first thing that comes to Mairon’s mind. Melkor touches his Maia with a mild suggestion, timid in its development.

_Mairon sees a sharp ceremonial dagger and the soulless white eyes of Mandos hovering beyond a dark veil. Manwë comes into view, holding the dagger in a fist. He smirks and mumbles something Melkor does not understand. In he cuts, again and again, with precision until a thin slit of flesh is left where Melkor once had unbroken skin. Manwë hands the dagger with the piece of Melkor’s face on it to Mandos. The corpse of an elf hangs behind him on silver hooks._

“What…” Suddenly afraid, Mairon wrenches free of Melkor’s thoughts. They retreat until Melkor is looking so ashamed Mairon feels guilt start to sink in. “No, look at me, that wasn’t your fault. Melkor, can you… tell me what he said?”

Melkor shakes his head and it takes twenty seconds this time. Apology glimmers in his unshed tears. Then, his face goes slack. The door bursts open.

“What are you two _doing_ in here?”

The voice is neither angered nor upset, merely surprised in high pitch. “Belekoroz? _Mairon_?”

Mairon pleads with his entire body as he rises on his knees in Melkor’s lap. “Please,” he begs, imploring Vána to listen. “Help us.”

~

Outside, hundreds of tiny white flowers with four petals each dance in the wind. Many have blanketed Melkor as Vána sits in front of him, sunlight warming her golden hair. Mairon, beside Melkor holds his hand for support. He knows it is difficult for Melkor to talk to others.

Melkor slowly cards his stiff fingers through the pool of flowers in his lap, watching the smooth, fragrant blossoms spill over his thighs. Vána observes him for a time, genuinely interested in the progress of his recovery. Mairon knows this and assumes an ulterior motive. Vána has none.

“You like those, hm?” Melkor looks up as Vána speaks to him. He nods, wary tension in his shoulders. She laughs lightly and brings her hands together, spreading them apart a moment later. A chain of the exact same flowers grows in curling patterns. “Here.” She reaches out to put it on Melkor’s head and he flinches, forgetting to breathe until Mairon reminds him with a squeeze to his hand. Vána sits back in her chair woven of white branches and watches Melkor open his eyes. Wearing the flower crown, he almost looks _cute_. She blushes at the sight.

“It won’t hurt you.” says Mairon gently. “These flowers are only resting on your head.”

“I see…” Melkor goes cross-eyed trying to look. “Do… I look… good?”

“You do!” Vána giggles. “You should come outside more often. There are so many flower crowns you would look absolutely _stunning_ in.” She is clothed in nothing _but_ flowers, petals and vines wrapped around her delicate figure. Even her hair is made of fine, wispy white strands. When the wind blows, some fall away like dandelion puffs. More swish about to take their place. She is a vision of life and joy, somewhat diminished in Melkor’s presence. Mairon has told her not to surprise him with quick movements. Of everything, Melkor is afraid. With good reason, too.

“My Lady, you asked prior what we were doing in that room…” Mairon strokes Melkor’s upper arm as he speaks. Melkor’s eyes track the repeated, calming motions. “I found Melkor here sitting on his own.”

“Melkor? Is that what you call him?” Vána tilts her head to the side. “Hmhm. Manwë is adamant in addressing him otherwise.”

“I do not like it.” says Melkor, peering at Vána cautiously. “Manwë is wrong.”

“My, accusing words to the most righteous being in all of Arda, don’t you think?” Vána tents her fingers, a little yellow pollen falling off the nails. “I’m sure Manwë means you no harm.”

“He did this.” Mairon gestures to Melkor’s scar, insisting where Melkor cannot. “Manwë means _every_ bit of harm.”

Vána listens and begins to frown the further Mairon explains. Eventually, she looks to Melkor.

“Can you show me what you showed him?”

Melkor shakes his head. He does not trust her. Mairon asks to do the same, and connects with Vána once given Melkor’s permission. Melkor will not open his mind, for one with Vána’s power may easily plunder his weakened mind for all it is worth. Mairon has little strength in comparison to her but takes this opportunity to sense her malice – finding none. Vána takes one look at the recollection of Melkor’s torment and gasps.

“This… I know what this is. This is that room underground.”

Now, Mairon raises an eyebrow and tries to delve into what else Vána knows but she foresees and closes their connection.

“It is not for you to know.” Vána stands then, looking down at Melkor. He whimpers inaudibly. “I cannot help you.”

“Wait! Why, why can’t you? Please, my Lady. You must! Can’t you see – you _know_ this is wrong!” Mairon pleads with her, leaning over Melkor to protect him with his body. Vána shakes her head.

“I will not cross the King.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapter titles refer to some characters. Affliction here is a general sickness taking over the Valar who bow to Manwe, and the inescapable pain Melkor has endured/will endure.


	8. Accosting

Manwë becomes a _lot_ busier in the weeks that follow Mairon’s release. Dark circles ring his eyes as he spends endless hours awake, underground doing Eru knows what. It is in this time that Mairon treasures Melkor’s company and the time they have alone. Melkor quite enjoys being outside, the sensations of nature awakening his mind. Mairon interacts with him as a lover, carer and friend. Today, he holds Melkor’s hands.

“Put these wherever you like.” Mairon is still and allows Melkor to use his own strength, waving his hands around. They trace erratic patterns in the air and then glide down Melkor’s chest, into his lap. Melkor leaves Mairon’s hands there and grins. Mairon blushes just a little and praises him. “Good, you’re moving nicely. Now, can you put your hands up?”

Melkor raises his hands to either side of his head and awaits further instruction. Mairon pats his thighs, encouraging him to go a little higher. Once Melkor has achieved a proper victory pose, Mairon creeps up and tickles him beneath his arms. When Melkor laughs, it is breathless and accompanied by a smile. Mairon hugs him afterwards and congratulates his efforts.

In the following days, Mairon teaches him how to walk. It starts with a stretching of the legs and Melkor holding on, but eventually, the Vala stands to a height just a few inches greater than Mairon’s own. Mairon walks backwards, holding Melkor’s hands and gazing up at him.

“You can do it,” he whispers. “I know you can.”

Though tentative, Melkor relishes the feel of being able to stand and uses Mairon for support. Beneath his bare feet the grass is lush and soft, with nothing in Manwë’s gardens that will hinder his progress. He tires easily but Mairon persists, moving a little further each day until Melkor can wander at a leisurely pace. Never on his own, of course. Melkor will go nowhere without at least one of Mairon’s hands in his own. When he cannot feel the Maia at his side, the colour drains from the world and he forgets where he is going. So, Mairon leads him.

Today they are sitting in the gardens together, amongst a heap of purple flowers. For some reason the tree above has been littering the ground with petals every time the wind blows, and from time to time the two Ainur are covered in them. Melkor picks a few from his hair and offers them to Mairon, who accepts the gift. Due to the warm weather, Mairon wears his loose grey tunic open and some linen breeches for decency. Melkor gazes at his partially bared chest. He reaches over and touches Mairon, running the soft pads of his fingers along smooth skin. His touch is hot enough to make Mairon blush, and turns into a hungry, groping exploration. Mairon realizes he has not had contact like this with another body in literal ages and leans closer, an inviting smile at his lips.

“Go on.” He tilts his head back, showing off the pale column of his neck. “Remember when you used to rest your head here?”

“I do.” Melkor shuffles forwards in the grass, flowers spilling all over Mairon when he is close enough to bow his head. “But… I remember something else.” He whispers into Mairon’s sensitive, silky skin and his teeth are unusually sharp for someone who has eaten only soft food for the past few years.

“Wait…” Mairon breathes and pushes against Melkor’s head with a gentle hand. Melkor raises his head, worry overtaking his face. “No, calm yourself. You’ve done nothing wrong. Can I… see your teeth?”

Melkor finds the question odd but snarls nonetheless, pulling back his lips to show Mairon what had once been perfect, straight teeth. The edges are becoming fine, jagged points and the effect is quite pronounced in his upper canine teeth. It reminds Mairon very much of Melkor’s preferred Fána, the body he once wore as a Dark Lord, tall and terrible. Teeth made for tearing flesh asunder, and skin the colour of heavy storm clouds. Melkor does in fact have little colour to his hands, which admittedly look better than they had when silmaril-burned. Melkor had become unrecognizable in the Void. In this new body however, his soul has begun to consume.

“Can I have a kiss?” asks Melkor, pursing his lips.

“Oh, of course.” Mairon holds him with care and tenderly kisses him, gently flicking his tongue. “You can kiss me whenever you like. We used to, back home.”

“Where… is home?” A distant memory flickers behind Melkor’s eyes, the orange glow of ancient lava pits brightening his gaze. “Ang…band. Right?”

“Yes, Angband. We… can’t talk about it here, not now.”

“I know.” Melkor mumbles in apology. “Forgive me.” He looks at the ground and squishes a few flowers beneath his fist. Mairon lays a hand atop his.

“It’s okay. One day, we’ll be free from your brother’s clutches and then we can talk about whatever we like.”

Melkor says nothing and continues to crush the flowers. Mairon watches him do that for a few minutes until there is nothing but pulp in the grass and Melkor’s hand has a purple sheen to it. He wonders what is going through the Vala’s head and takes a peep. What he sees is a love for destruction, the freedom to control the fate of lesser objects and the exertion of his will against the unwilling. Melkor is remembering his past, is reverting and growing stronger. Mairon nearly shrieks with glee.

~

As a chaotic being, Melkor does not like to be still. At every chance he is up and about, walking around in Manwë’s Maia-crowded house and pushing smaller Ainur out of the way. It is after he wakes and Manwë feeds him breakfast that he takes off, once he’s sure his brother is away doing unmentionable things. Spirits are leaping to get out of his path by the time word gets around that _he can move_.

Mairon talks to Mandos about this, since he is the only one who knows anything about Fëar. Granted, those of the Ainur are far greater and more complex than those of elves, but still Mandos understands. He does not question Mairon’s motives and answers him, grateful that the topic of conversation stays away from what he has been doing with Manwë.

“It is not uncommon for particles of energy to disperse.” says Mandos, staring into space with his dull, dead eyes. Clothed in black robes so thick they obscure any recognizable body shape, he is shadowed in curls of dark smoke. “Energy, matter, all of it remains constant. Morgoth’s corruption of other spirits has ended in their deaths, and when such terrible things occur their twisted beings burst into raw energy. Over time, the energy will return to its original owner, and if said owner is dead, it will come to the main source of familiar power.” He speaks of death in the simplest terms his vast mind can handle, and after some degree of processing Mairon understands.

“None of the Orcs and Wraiths exist now with much strength in the world, do they?”

“Nay. They do not. Morgoth is a magnet for their lost, floating energies. The particles of his own malice will soon return, which is why I _implore_ Lord Manwë to let me throw him through the Door but does he listen?”

“Don’t throw him back, my Lord. Please. He is good, as my Master said. Whether or not his power returns to him in full and aligns with thoughts long since purged is yet to be seen.”

“Purged,” says Mandos, eyeing Mairon warily. “How do you know that?”

A sudden force hits Mairon’s brain with a shaking, horrifying strength that sends the Maia to his knees. He cries out as Mandos reams his memory for anything that aligns with Melkor’s thought, helpless.

“Ah,” Mandos tuts and raises a bony finger, drawing out a silver line from Mairon’s head. It convulses and takes shape, forming an image. There is the moment of Melkor’s scarring, and Mandos himself is present. The image falls to the floor in a pool of liquid. “You have seen too much, and are curious.”

_‘We have purged much and extracted more from the Dark One, that is true. But if he is able to remember with such clarity… and share it with this Maia… this is a problem. The next time, he shall be blinded. He does not deserve The Sight.’_

Thoughts of Melkor’s omniescence returning chill Mandos’s trembling bones. A freezing wind blasts through the Door of Night as it has been left open, the last dregs of evil presence being sucked out by several wispy Maiar. Irmo watches them, afraid. From time to time he glances at his brother, still consumed in reflection.

Mairon staggers to his feet and tries to run, stumbling only to the side of the long hall. Mandos on his throne shakes his head. “Where are you going?”

“Look in my mind, why don’t you? I’m sure you’ll find the answers you need.”

“Do not sass me, young one. It is I who has power over he who once poisioned your mind, the acid still burning as we speak.” With a flick of his wrist, Mandos conjures a figure out of the floating black dregs near the Door of Night. The Maiar duck their little heads as an enormous cloud of malice rushes to bow in the form of a man at Mandos’s feet. The man turns, protrusions growing from his body until he resembles Melkor in the very armor Mairon had once made him. Soulless, cruel eyes stare at the Maia, smoke pouring from the sockets.

“Morgoth’s will yet lives within you, and it is eating away at your Fëa. I can feel it… soon, you will disperse, be overcome, and die.” Mandos holds thick condescension in his voice, a much deeper mockery threading his words. “You are fallen, Mairon. Repent.”

Still searching for an exit, Mairon breathes in a little of the Melkorish cloud before him. It is cold and hungry, a weighted beast of hate. Ancient tendrils of scattered thought slick Mairon’s throat with words that are not his own, his breath stinging as it rushes out of him in a freezing blast.

**“No.”**

“He is with him, brother.” Irmo whispers with his soft white lashes downcast. “The Dark One attempts contact.”

“He must not consume this energy. Venuz, Saelbeth, cleanse him.”

Mandos points a bony finger in accusation at Mairon. “You _will_ submit.”

Mairon tries to run, of course he does, imbued with the flighty spirit of his Lord. This is not Melkor _now_ , no, it is the mass of his spite towards the Valar for locking him in the Void, now given hold in the physical world. Mairon knows not what Mandos plans to do with all this anger, nor the purpose of removing it from the _safety_ of the Void, and thinks.

‘ _The Valar and all the elves have been safe thus far from my Master’s wrath, that which they deserve, his emotions, opinions, freedom and **rights** locked away… locked for so long… cultivating this hatred, letting it grow and fester… e x t r a c t i n g it from the Void. This has been floating in that space, seeping into his mind and flowing back out. It is not with him now. It is here, before me, and cannot escape from these halls.’ _ The raw essence of Melkor’s former self rolls across the hall, bearing Mairon away from the wraithlike Maiar. Here in Mandos’s domain however there is no escape, and a net of fierce domination smacks into both Maia and malice alike. Mairon, squashed against the cold stone wall with the weight of Melkor’s burdens pressed against him has no breath left to scream.

‘ _It is dark,_ ’ he thinks. _‘So… so dark.’_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> using that glue for the end of this chapter and most of the next one ok IT'S GONNA BE SPOOKY


	9. Aching

Melkor waits for Mairon in his room until the sun goes down. Mairon does not come.

Manwë greets him icily and with a bright, gleaming smile. “Belekoroz. Whatever are you doing in a place like this?”

“Waiting.” Melkor sits on Mairon’s bed, aching with worry. “Where is Mairon?”

“Hm?” Manwë tilts his head to the side. A few feathers stick out. “Why do you care?”

“Why do you _think_ I care? He is the only one who treats me with anything other than regret and shame. I… want… my Maia.”

Now, Manwë’s voice pitches a tone higher along with his raised eyebrows. “ _Your_ Maia?” He laughs, shrill and chirping. “Oh, do excuse me! I am his _Master_ , after all. Whatever you could want with a simple cleaning servant is amusing to me.”

“C-cleaning…?” A memory hits, and Manwë knows it, prizing open Melkor’s mind to have a look. Jagged images of Mairon in a much more beautiful body (one that suits him, with tumbling golden locks of hair and ornate eye makeup) wiping blood from obsidian slabs can be seen. Melkor shoves Manwë physically and it is enough to get him _out_ , his hold broken by sheer surprise. Manwë staggers back, a gentle hand coming up to his chest. He blinks several times, sky-blue eyes glistening.

“Belekoroz?”

“Do… not… _SAY THAT!”_ Melkor throws his whole body forth and screams at his brother enough to ruffle _all_ the stunned Vala’s feathers. Puffing himself up into a big fat ball of birdlike rage, Manwë answers with a screech of his own.

“DO NOT YELL AT ME!” He shrieks, eyes open wide and pupils _tiny_. A fierce white glow begins emanating from his body, and Melkor is taken aback by the raw power Manwë is ready to unleash. He has never seen his brother this ready for a fight, in all the years of memory he retains. Just as he begins to regret his life choices, Melkor feels the air dissipate. Tinkling crystals form of the liquid tension in the air and fall to the ground. Manwë takes in a deep breath and growls it back out, though it is a pure, smooth sound rather than Melkor’s guttural variant. “Dare you raise your voice in command to the King of the Valar, Belekoroz?”

Soft rays of golden sunlight filter through the gossamer curtains, a calm breeze rippling through. The back of Melkor’s neck bristles at the touch. Manwë has grabbed hold of his flesh, the very _air_ an instrument of torture. Manwë is not even touching him, not with his own two hands. It is with his mind, focussed and even that he digs in his nails.

“I will make you bleed, and they will not find you, brother. Not until the end of days comes, and Father himself unmakes you.” Manwë steps a little closer, and Melkor is rooted to the spot. “Just like that, Belekoroz. Be a good boy for me.” The feeling at Melkor’s neck travels lower, beneath his skin until it tears through his muscles to bone. Manwë’s will penetrates deep into Melkor’s frozen body, and his hands come around his brother’s waist. “There you go. No more silly outbursts, alright? You’ll have me worried.” Manwë picks up Melkor by the waist, able to handle him easily with his own eternal strength. He cradles the frightened Vala in his arms and coos to him like a dying pigeon. The curtains fall flat against the window.

~

Melkor sits with Manwë on the balcony, waiting for Mairon. Whenever he tries to move it hurts, and this is Manwë willing him to remain motionless, the power of his thought still in Melkor’s body. Melkor cries softly as Manwë braids his hair. He is not allowed to feel hate.

~

Nobody questions when Mairon comes back, a year after his disappearance. Manwë does not welcome him with open arms and instead directs him to Eonwë, who teaches Mairon what happens to those who leave.

Mairon’s eyes are unfocussed when Melkor sees them again, perfectly round and woefully tired.

“Mairon…” Melkor breathes, trembling as he raises his hands. “Mairon………”

Mairon steps back and cocks his head to one side, wary. “Forgive me, Belekoroz. I am not permitted to speak to you.”

Melkor’s hands freeze in the air and the life drains from his face. His jaw slackens, eyes watering. “No… M…Mairon… you…” The words do not come quick enough and Mairon turns, leaving Melkor behind. Melkor tries to catch him, in big, lumbering steps but a hand jerks him back and it is Eonwë, floating in the hallway.

“Not so fast.” the Maia chirps, a nasty smirk curving his pale pink lips. “My brother has work to do.”

Melkor swats at Eonwë but misses completely, his movements sluggish and painful. He does not want to go back to how he used to be, at the mercy of Manwë and his patronizing whims. He does not want to eat cheesecake in the sunlight anymore.

~

All that Melkor once had to give is coming back, but he has given the most to his beloved Mairon. Mairon has been cleansed, Melkor’s essence taken from him and stored in the Halls of Mandos. This is what Irmo knows, and sends to Melkor in a dream. Irmo and Estë are not well-versed in the art of pity, but what they feel for Melkor can be described as nothing else. The knowledge both saddens and angers Melkor, for what he has given the former balrogs, wraiths and orcs is but a drop of might compared to what Mairon has. Mairon has, and always will have Melkor’s _love_.

It seems that even this has been removed. Mairon scrubs the floors, mindlessly humming a tune frightfully opposing to Melkor’s internal music. Said music is the slow, dampened pulse of a heart with little reason to beat. Melkor moves only when Manwë is away. Manwë is _always there_.

One day, Manwë is called by an unseen force to his secrets underground. His winged ears twitch as if a voice beckons, and he drifts away, Melkor forgotten but filling his mind at once.

After three minutes, Melkor rises. He holds the walls and stretches his legs around the room until he is able to walk, seeking Mairon’s presence. He finds the Maia dusting some statues and grabs him by the shoulder, pressing him into a small alcove. Mairon squeaks, and his eyes darken with recognition. He lowers his gaze.

“Mairon, please.” Melkor begs for his Maia to remember the times they shared even if he himself cannot. “It is I. You… said last time, about Angband… Look, there’s no-one here, we… we can… talk about it, now…” Desperation quivers in his deep voice, and Mairon mumbles in response.

“Is this how I die?”

“No!” Melkor shakes him, rubbing Mairon’s delicate shoulderblades against the relief carvings in the alcove. “I will not hurt you…”

“But you are bad, Belekoroz, Lord Manwë says so. Please, leave me be. If you respect me in the slightest, you will listen.” His eyes narrow into thin slits, and he does not look up. Melkor contemplates every possible outcome, and his grip weakens. It is then that an idea strikes, an errant wisp from the Void perhaps, loosed by a Vala neither for or against him.

He turns just in time to see a blade carve the air before his head. Eonwë touches the ground.

“What have I told you about bothering my brother? Lord Manwë will hear of this.” Eonwë deposits the long, golden sword in a scabbard just by his leg and snorts, indignant. Melkor clutches Mairon closer, allowing his singular thought to condense. Staring into Eonwë’s beady little eyes, a maddened smirk cracks his fearful guise.

“He cannot hear of what no-one knows.” Melkor paralyzes Eonwë with the surge of his will dedicated to keeping Mairon by his side – it crashes into him like a tidal wave under which he drowns. Gasping for breath, Eonwë reaches for his sword but it is in Melkor’s hand and _oh, oh_ , _there it is, upon my neck, oh, won’t that leave a nasty scar?_

Melkor’s thought melds with Eonwë’s terror and teases him, licking the blade along reddened, dripping flesh.

“Speak, Eonwë. I _dare_ you.”

Eonwë is trapped in his Fána now feeling nothing but agony, he cannot die and he cannot move, and Mairon is _watching_ him with a face that says _I told you so._ Melkor scoops Eonwë under one arm and runs, dragging Mairon along with him. This will use all the energy he has left, he knows, but it is for a worthy cause.

It must be. He is bleeding.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AWWW SHIT LMAO


	10. Ascension

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> shit goes DOWN

Blood dripping from his nose, Melkor staggers through dark, long grass and knocks with Eonwë’s head on Mandos’s front door. Wiry black flowers peer at him, and decide they want nothing to do with what is going on. Mairon has had his eyes closed the entire time locked in Melkor’s grip, and Eonwë has rasped air until his lungs gave up. Now, Mairon takes a peek and nearly tears Melkor’s hand off.

“We have to go back!” cries Mairon, scraping Melkor’s flesh with his clean white fingernails. “Please, we must, _Melkor_ , you have to listen to me…”

“Eh?” Melkor turns, incredulous at Mairon’s sudden words. “You… You remember, then? You… and I…?” His eyes drift to Mairon’s hand, tight around his wrist.

“Yes, Melkor forget that and listen to me!! We cannot stay here! Mandos… will take you… and…”

The door opens and Mairon falls silent. There stands Mandos, with Vairë at his side. She is a mass of multicoloured threads and pulls Melkor through the door while Mandos tents his fingers.

“Ah, the source itself. Such a wonderful gift, _Annatar_.”

“Can you NOT?” Mairon lunges to grab Melkor’s ankle and Mandos wonders why he is so eager to be tortured again. “No! Let him go!”

“Hush, mouthy one.”  Vairë constricts Mairon’s throat with a few strands of her being. Eonwë’s corpse is pried from Melkor’s hold and floats before Mandos. “What is this?”  
“An offering.” Melkor spits. “I’m going to…” Then his words die and he pauses. Mandos sees that initially, Melkor intended to kill _every single Maia_ in Manwë’s house while at once demanding Mandos ‘fix’ Mairon’s mind. How Melkor knew of what Mairon went through here in the Halls also becomes apparent the further Mandos delves. Melkor resists him of course, but Mandos has all he needs.

“Fetch my brother.” says the Doomsman of the Valar, instructing his Maiar with a finger away. “We will have words.”

Melkor is still bleeding and realizes that he’s fucked up. Staring numbly at the floor as Vairë carries him away, he wonders why Mairon has changed.

Mairon has only acted against Melkor in accordance with Manwë’s wishes, biding his time until they had a moment alone. Eonwë has always been there. He has not had the _chance_.

Now, he never will. Melkor is not strong enough to survive what Mandos has in store for him. Mairon begins to scream when he hears the machines.

~

 In the dark, Manwë hears a drip-drip-dripping.

“What is it?” hisses a voice, accompanied by several others. Sharp echoes dissolve in the pulsing black walls. Screaming faces meld with the organic material, crying for Manwë’s touch. His knowledge. Even a breath, and they will feel _whole_.

Manwë breaks off a finger as he walks into the room and flicks it into the center, where dim light flickers. The creature there, hunched and gargantuan consumes the offering. It croaks.

“Master…”

“Yes, my pet. I am here.” Manwë coos as his hand comes to cup the creature’s chin. It is much stickier than anything else in the room, even the throbbing, thick-veined floor. The hands that claw at Manwë are stamped into submission. Manwë withdraws his touch, tutting.

“Why do you bleed?”

“I… know not, Master. Forgive me.” Lifting its head, the figure flexes powerful muscles and chains clink with the effort of restraint. “Do we learn today?”

“No. I come as you have called me, but for what purpose?” Manwë’s patience is thinner than his wispy white eyebrows. He wants to get back to Melkor. Dread has begun to sink in.

“I am bleeding, Master. Please, help me.” The light grows as Manwë wills it and illuminates the face of the chained beast. A vaguely human shape coated in black ooze squints crimson eyes shut. Manwë observes blood dripping from its hooked, angular nose. He wipes it away, and tastes it. The metallic tang washes his mouth in a cosmic reality so abstract that for a moment, Manwë is shocked.

He leaves without another word _. Someone else is playing his game._

~

The Master of the Fates of Arda opens his eyes. Blurred before him is the sight of Mandos and Irmo arguing with each other, Mandos shouting and Irmo quiet but firm.

“But how can this be?” Mandos throws his hands out. “There isn’t a drop of strength in him?”

“He has bled, brother.” Irmo gestures to the floor. “Injured, yet you still seek to extract his essence? Haven’t you enough?” He points to a huge, swirling ball of blackness just beyond Melkor’s sight. “Let him go.”

“If I knew no better I would think you a traitor, Irmo.” Mandos steps a little closer, the smaller Vala (no taller than a child) holding his ground. “Why do you seek to offer him kindness when he has done nothing good for the world?”

“He has created balance, something you lack in your blind following of the King. Open your eyes, or at least give yourself some pupils and _see_.” They war then in silent thought, that which Melkor cannot touch. He groans, thick red seeping through his lips. In the dim blue light of whatever cavern he stands in, he sees Mairon. Chained similarly upright against a wall, Mairon is still. The steady chugging of an unknown force batters against Melkor’s mind, doing the same he can see to Mairon. Mairon however appears a mere husk, his face gaunt and nude body shriveled. Mandos is milking the core of his being for any last dregs of Melkor’s corruption. He must be cleansed. _Thoroughly_.

Eonwë is having the same process done to him, a few Maiar healing his Fána under Mandos’s command. All who contact Melkor liaise with sin. Mandos will purge the Dark One from reality no matter what it takes. Melkor is not allowed to exist on any plane in Manwë’s perfect world. Mandos disregards his brother and leaves in a cloud of smoke. Irmo approaches Melkor, his small nacreous body shimmering and innocent.

“I am sorry.” he murmurs, “For all that has happened.”

“Then… help… me…” Melkor begs. “Please.”

“I have.” Irmo holds up one finger and interrupts the flow of blood trickling down Melkor’s body. “Lord of Chaos, I ask you to break down the barriers of this mortal realm and consolidate your identity.” Down Melkor’s leg, Irmo trails the blood. He hums a lilting tune as the line goes to the floor, drawn all the way to the other side of the room. Stalactites drip raw energy from the ceiling, fading from electrifying blue to poisonous purple. The Maiar leave Eonwë and exit.

“The blood of the host in waning might.” Irmo finishes his red line at the base of the black ball, not yet touching Melkor’s collected void-essence. He brings Eonwë over to lie across the line and plunges his hand through the Maia’s chest, extracting his heart. “The body of the enemy in waning might.” He then goes to Mairon and Melkor gasps, _no, don’t touch him, do not sacrifice my only…_ and removes the throbbing machine-like organism atop his head. It bulges with shreds of contained, hidden influence and Irmo slits it with a sharp fingernail. The Melkorism at first edges towards its master, but Irmo wrangles it into his free hand that holds Eonwë’s heart. “The mind of the servant, in waning might.” Then he touches Melkor, scooping up the blood that drips from his nose. It drenches all else that he holds, black tendrils growing from the beating organ in Irmo’s hand. With both dripping hands raised to the collection of hatred, Irmo cries, “He who arises in Might shall wane no more!” and throws the offerings forth. The ball pulses, incoherent speech uttered in both anger at Eonwë and delight at Mairon, then finally recognition in Melkor’s blood. Along the line it rushes and a terrible wind hollow and negative sucks all the power straight out of the room. Mairon does not breathe and neither does Irmo, who lies on the floor watching. There is nothing to breathe, for this space is Void and it is inside Melkor that the happening takes place. All the way to the Door to the Halls, blood evaporates into the air, returns to its rightful owner and all that is unmelkor does not exist. The ceiling of the cavern collapses, a huge black hole forming as the energies contained within the Extraction Room are consumed by Melkor. The souls of the elves great and weak feed his endless hunger, that which has craved _meat_ and gotten nothing but meringue. Melkor breaks his chains in a glorious burst of raw power and _screams_. He is born again, and this is his Song.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :O


	11. Apathy

The first thing Melkor does with his ancient restored Might is give back all that belongs to Mairon. Mairon’s spirit has long since left the dried-up Fána of Manwë’s craft and lingers near Melkor, where it grows wonderfully strong. Mairon clothes himself as a tall Maia wrapped in golden flames, hair alight with raging red fire. Melkor completely discards his body and at once, explodes. Irmo is blinded by the seething mass of _evil_ , the will to wrong those who have tormented the Host. He looks at Eonwë’s corpse and wonders how he will explain that.

~

Manwë strides across the grassy plains of Aman in the only way he knows to get to Mandos’s halls. He is far too frazzled to take flight, and feels sticky, his sins crawling on his back. ‘ _It does not work like that!_ ’ He shudders, scraping at his bare skin with his birdlike talons. _‘I am pure, I do not sin, it is not in my Father-made capacity to…’_ His thoughts wilt at the sight of the biggest cloud he’s ever seen rising from Mandos’s Halls. Those Halls are on a different plane according to Mandos, able to be reached through this physical manifestation of a building and transported through the door into another dimension. Breaking every barrier known to life, Melkor arises as a majestic, heavy and powerful self. He sees all, feels all and will shower the Blessed Realm in blood. At his side is Mairon, who encourages Melkor to take recognizable shape. Of course, everyone knows who the Great Enemy is. With the ability to shift however, Melkor becomes the sum of all his parts. There are the wailing elves swirling in great tornadoes by his feet, spirits long since put to rest. Eonwë’s wings belong to him now but they are enormous and spiny, feathers razor-sharp. They mock Manwë’s own fluffy white ones. Melkor wears atop his head a near perfect replica of his silmaril crown, beaming an intrusive light that burns anything it touches. In his eyes, his soul can be seen and Manwë knows this is the End.

~

Melkor blinks. Irmo is still holding up his finger and Melkor finds images flickering before his own eyes.

“Wh…what…?”

“A lovely dream.” Irmo smiles kindly and turns away. “Perhaps a vision. Let yourself grow weak, Melkor. Humble. Maybe then I will help.”

~

Melkor and Mairon sit together in a field of daisies, watching the elves play. Unfeeling, Melkor touches the Maia beside him with his thought.

_I am here, but who am I?_

Mairon is drooling again, his eyes unfocussed. A few of the elves are nude, and Melkor wonders if they have ever felt shame.

_Mairon. Are you there?_

Mairon does not answer, and a bee lands on his nose. Slowly, he goes cross-eyed trying to look at it. Melkor observes it and thinks how strange it is that Mairon will pay attention to something so small, when someone far more interesting is beside him.

_Mairon, do you think I’m interesting?_

Melkor does not know. Mairon says nothing.  They are good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At this point, the story may end.  
> ...unless you want something happier, then I'll write it XD


	12. Apocalypse

“This is what Manwë wants.” Irmo points to a large, upstanding pool that somehow has materialized before the black ball of Melkor’s thought. Wracked with nightmares and hallucinations, Melkor and Mairon stare. “Observe.”

The pool ripples, gravity meaningless here in the Extraction Room. When energy drips down from above, microscopic images can be seen. Melkor tries to focus. He holds Mairon’s hand.

The Council of the Valar comes into view. There in the center of the table are three creatures clad in fair white robes. Their faces are gnarled, twisted elf-mockeries. Every single one of them bears resemblance to Melkor. Only, while Melkor still bleeds from the nose, they all remain spotless. Manwë has commanded them to do so.

“What… are these?” asks Ulmo, having no clue at all what has been going on after spending millenia in the ocean.

“These are the Ambassadors of Goodwill, the solution to Arda’s problems.” Manwë is half expected to pull out a projector and start dictating a PowerPoint presentation, but keeping in line with sensible behaviours he recites his speech. “I have created them along with the help of many of you here, so that we may show Humanity the benefits of worship.”

“Those godless heretics won’t fall for your tricks, you know.” Tulkas shakes his head. “They’re a lost cause.”

“These are not _my_ tricks, Tulkas. They are my brother’s.”

The Valar ooh and ahh. Melkor, chained and gripping Mairon’s hand stifles a sob.

“Belekoroz has been known to manipulate, cheat and lie his way into the minds of even the most stubborn Children. If he can turn our peaceful Eldar against each other, surely his words, imbued with my will, can persuade Humanity to repent?”

“No way.” Vána clasps a hand to her mouth. “Don’t you remember about intervention? It’s forbidden. What part of that didn’t you understand, the _forbid_ or the _den_?”

“Quiet.” Manwë snarls at her, then his face snaps back to its usual saccharine sweetness. “This is not intervention from us, not directly, anyway. These here are facets of Belekoroz’s spirit condensed into individual bodies, each crafted of his dark essence. Any interaction with Humanity will be done by _him_ , not us.”

“Don’t tell me he’s found a loophole.” Melkor stutters, disbelieving. “No, he’s not allowed to _do_ that! Isn’t that the _one rule_ we’re supposed to keep constant?”

“You never obeyed it…” Irmo mutters, but says nothing more. He will not accept tangential conversations when a live broadcast of the impending apocalypse is taking place.

“Excellent!” Oromë clasps his hands together and smiles. “These Ambassadors of yours will explain to Humanity that miracles, Valar and the like _do_ exist and that they will live glorious, gifted lives if they follow the rules!”

“Yes, and I have informed everyone here of the rules to living a peaceful life.” Manwë gestures to his elf-eared monstrosities, some who are trembling and others with only a face that looks decent. “Their minds are filled with so much knowledge… I have taught them the ways of empathy and love. They will impart this understanding unto every little sinner in Arda.”

“Nice.” Aulë gives a thumbs up. “But what if Humanity doesn’t listen?”

 “Everyone _will_ be kind to each other." Manwë opens his eyes wide, pupils shrinking to mere dots. A wide, toothy grin splits his lips and he giggles like a child.

 "They will have no choice."


	13. AAAAAAA

Irmo informs the two chained Ainur that they have been dreaming for _years_. Long thought placed back in the Void, Melkor walks in Aman only now at the Council of the Valar, on the end of Manwë’s five leashes.

“So you see, Manwë has gone utterly mad.” Irmo explains as he dims the sound of the watching-pool. “You both need to stop him, and I will help.”

“And Mandos? How are we going to get past him?” Mairon mewls feebly and Melkor strokes his hand, urging him to conserve his strength. Irmo smiles.

“I have my ways.”

Melkor cannot feel the fragments of his mind that have been taken from him, yet seeing them in the pool he knows they are from his time in the Void. He narrows his eyes. “You have a _plan_.”

“Tulkas and Mandos will come to chain you and throw you in the Void when Manwë’s work is done. You will die there, Melkor.” Irmo clicks his tongue. “Fortunately, I will negotiate with them on your behalf and send them visions of ruin beforehand. I am skilled in manipulation almost as much as you.”

“You’re going to use… words… to talk with Tulkas’s fists? And Mandos’s… doom? I’m _damned_ , Irmo. I did not think you would be so _stupid_.”

“Then die, Melkor.” Irmo turns away, offended. Mairon chokes out a plea.

“Oh, please he did not mean that, not at all! You _must_ help us. We are Father’s sons as much as you are.”

“You are far less.” Irmo grins. “Just like him.” Gazes drift to the wall on the right where Eonwë is strung up by his wrists. Pumping his thoughts, something that looks like a jellyfish sucks on his head. The one on his shoulders, mind you.

Melkor squints. “What’s going to happen to him?”

“He will die. Here in the Halls of Mandos, _everything_ dies. You two are the exception.”

“And you?” Melkor looks Irmo’s youthful body up and down. “What’s going to happen to you?”

“I do not exist, Melkor. Go to sleep.”

~

Manwë leaves the Ambassadors to talk politics with the other Valar and strides over to Mandos’s Halls, entirely confident in himself. He knows where Melkor has been all this time, having contact with Mandos through a mind stronger than most.

He arrives to see Melkor standing with Mandos and Tulkas, who cracks his knuckles every few minutes just to see Melkor jump. Soon, the blight on all that is good will return to the darkness from whence it came. Or something. Manwë must work on his poetic speeches.

“Finally!” Melkor throws his hands up in the air. “It’s about time you’ve arrived. Just what is going on? What am I doing here, I’ve done nothing wrong…” Now and then his eyes flick to the open Door of Night. _He knows._

Manwë inhales a deep, icy breath.

"Did you really think I believed you'd changed, brother? Why, you must be far more deluded than I thought. Nay, I have little use for you now, Belekoroz. Into the Void with you."

“NOOOOOOOOOO!” Melkor thrashes about kicking and screaming as strong arms grab hold of him. He is dragged along by Mandos and Tulkas, the former’s mental power draining him. Without being chained however he actually stands a chance and connects a powerful strike with the side of Mandos's neck.

Mandos's head clatters to the ground (as his Fána just so happens to be a skeleton) and he scrambles to collect it. Tulkas meanwhile tightens his hold and goes to punch Melkor into submission, but one hand is not enough to constrain the mightiest Vala and Melkor slips away. Turning tail on the open black door, Melkor sprints for his life. His freedom. _Mairon_. He will not lose him again.

“After him!” shrieks Manwë, beginning to morph into a rabid eagle-man hybrid. Irmo nearly voids his bowels as everyone chases Melkor, who is screaming wildly once he gets through the Front Door. Mairon meanwhile is collecting Melkor’s essence in small vials with some of Irmo’s Maiar, taking it to the Fountains of Rest. There, Melkor’s disembodied burdens will be eased and the Vala’s mind will know peace. When his thoughts are returned to him, that is.

Mairon hears Melkor’s scream and yells back, urging him to go on. Some of the vials shatter. Melkor flies.


	14. Appeased

When Melkor reaches the Council everything happens at once. Mairon materializes out of nowhere and is screaming his head off, to which Melkor responds with a roar of his own. Amidst the cacophony of “AAAAAAAAAAA”s, the Valar disembody in fright just as the blood begins to flow. Manwë’s precious creatures can hold it no longer and their heads explode in vast showers of blood, cleaned up soon enough as it fills Melkor with his old strength. He knows these thoughts and claims them for himself, then shoves the decapitated bodies aside. Coated in red without a scrap of clothing on, he feels the Valar judging him. He stands in their circle, at their council, with his Maia. He breathes, and addresses them all.

“This never happened, okay?”

Manwë grabs him by the neck. “I don’t _think_ so.”

“GAK!” Choked, Melkor twists around in his brother’s grip. “Wh-When did _you_ get here?”

“I will not let you escape and harm the world again, Belekoroz.” Manwë knows Melkor will grow strong with the combustion of the vessels, those that he should’ve known were too weak to contain even a fraction of his spirit. He squeezes and the action spurs Melkor to convulse violently, sink his claws into Manwë’s shoulders and reverse suplex him into the table. Manwë’s teeth fly out with the force and he grunts in pain, lashing out with two huge white wings from his back. Melkor jumps out of the way as Varda is smacked in the face and begins cursing at her husband, who can barely speak aloud for the blood filling his mouth. The other Valar edge away to make way for Tulkas and Oromë, the former holding up fists and the latter pulling sharp swords out of the air. A wave of fierce intent assaults Melkor’s barely-collected mind as an effort is made to weaken him from the inside. Manwë rises to see his brother throw his head back and _scream_.

“FIGHT ME!!!” Melkor throws his bloodied, blackened hands out and hundreds of thousands of spines pierce through his glistening skin. “ALL OF YOU!” Swinging an arm he slashes Manwë’s robes open and they are quickly discarded in favour of hard, chitinous plate. Manwë takes armoured form and leaps onto the table, an enormous crystalline sword falling into his silver-edged hands. Tulkas runs to knock Melkor down and beat the essence out of him, Oromë circling to a tactical position. In the space between the wall and the chairs around the council table however, there is barely enough room to walk… especially for combat-enhanced Ainur. Melkor remedies that by yanking Mairon out of Aulë’s grip, holding the Maia atop his own head and roaring in unison to bring the entire place down. In the ensuing rubble and dust Manwë’s winds come to grant clear sight a second too late. Melkor rips the entire rooted table out of the ground and annihilates his brother’s face with it, cackling all the while. Manwë disembodies but cannot escape the shock of his realistic, sensitive nerves transmitting such terrible agony. This time he goes into the clouds and strikes lightning _everywhere_ in an attempt to destroy his brother. Melkor loses an arm to the vaporizing heat, and on the ground Aulë’s eyebrows disappear but Mairon is _completely fine_. Flames reach the sky as Mairon wings himself as a colossal Balrog while Melkor grows into a five hundred foot tall _beast_. Ulmo’s tsunamis mean nothing to him and Nienna’s weeping laughter spurs him to destroy every life form he sees. This ancient power and rage within is his very core, and he wears a permanent smile in the pure expression of himself. He stomps the ground and it cracks open, fissures spurting lava and his surging will over anything that dares breathe. He is Mighty, and he will win.

Before all of Aman can be destroyed, Melkor and Mairon _explode_. The assaults of the other Ainur die to confusion as the sky bursts beyond even the sight of Manwë with immeasurable power and they know at once it is the work of Illúvatar.

~

Melkor is still thrashing about when he realizes the world has gone dark. Varda’s stars are faint lights where he floats, but brighter is the light of a fair-bodied Mairon. Now, his eyes adjust and he feels weightless in the vast expanse of space.

 ** _“Be at peace, my children_**.” The words enter not as sounds but as knowledge in the minds of them both. “ ** _This is yours now._** ”

Melkor looks around, and in rage spits “There’s nothing here!” Almost instantly a speck of white bursts into a burning orange ball, of fire contained in its bubbling depths. Mairon thinks of what the world could have been if Melkor had only been given this chance in the beginning, and it touches the Vala beside him with its sentimental tenderness. Melkor’s rage falls away as he recalls his ancient creativity, the plans he had for _his_ world and slowly, the thoughts take shape as gaseous orbs. The further in his memory he reaches for inspiration, the closer the orbs are and to him, he can see them _all_ , distorting them until they take the shapes _he_ likes. Mairon’s are smaller but more intricate, some ringed and with patterns on the surface. Some are solid, some halfway between.

Melkor has forgotten the passage of time. It does not matter when he has _forever_ on his side, protected by Eru himself. The world continues to turn unhindered, and Mairon feels nothing but gratitude and relief that they now have _peace_. They sing together, no opposing melodies daring to weave into the abstract creation that is _theirs_. Eru wonders why he didn’t think of this in the first place.

Space is no longer Void.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The End. :)
> 
> Epilogue: It's believed that when Humanity ventures into space, they may encounter basic and advanced lifeforms that Melkor and Mairon have developed during their eternal time up there. Galaxies are clusters of organized thought and linked ideas. The planets that shine brightest, they made together. Melkor and Mairon have peace.  
> Aman, however, is still under restoration...


End file.
